


Heat

by NotJustFeet



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Car repairs, Greasemonkey, M/M, heat - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-28
Updated: 2012-07-28
Packaged: 2017-11-10 22:10:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotJustFeet/pseuds/NotJustFeet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While traveling to another assignment, the rented car needs fixed. Clint obliges. Coulson watches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt at AvengerKink - So, Clint and Coulson are on the road somewhere in the middle of nowhere (preferably somewhere hot) and their car breaks down. They can't call any service because no one's supposed to know where they are. But Clint turns out to be hotly competent in fixing cars. He takes his shirt off to do so (mustn't get too dirty, after all) and after watching Clint until the car's fixed Coulson feels the need to have him against the car.
> 
> Tl;dr Clint makes a very hot greasemonkey.
> 
> Please excuse any errors in American geography, or in car maintenance :) (Edited 01.08.12 due to tyre/tire error, and a cooked Clint :P)

“Death Valley, California. An area of outstanding beauty, of great interest to tourists and also, fucking hot.”

That's how Clint sums up their current location.

Their rented car is old and nondescript, the once deep red faded to pink where it isn't covered in rust and dirt. Coulson chose it especially to avoid notice, after what happened in Phoenix. Windows down, it cruises along at a sedate fifty-five miles per hour, with the radio blasting. After all, Clint can only do so much nondescript.

Inside the car, it's a furnace. The air conditioning broke down just outside of Vegas, and so far is resisting the swearing and occasional thumps from the driver.

Said driver, Clint, has lost his shirt since they left the hotel, and his white wifebeater is already sticking to his skin with sweat. He bobs his head to the music on the radio, fingers tapping out a counterpoint, broken by thumps as he pounds the dashboard above the air conditioning controls. 

Beside him, Coulson's only concession to the heat has been to undo the top button on his shirt, and loosen his tie a little. He is relaxed in his seat, eyes closed, apparently sleeping.

Its another routine journey on another routine assignment. Somewhere near Sacramento is a weapons dealer who would look much better with fletching protruding from between his eyes. That's what Hawkeye is here for.

Coulson is here to run interference, and make sure that nothing else goes wrong. Flying into Phoenix was a risk, and it was a risk that didn't pay off. Hence the now overland journey in a rented jalopy. He's not sleeping. He's listening to the sound of the engine running and the thud of Clint's fingers. He's breathing in the smell of Clint, warm and familiar.

There are rules about fraternization at SHIELD. There are no rules about imagination, and Coulson has developed some very vivid fantasies. These journeys together, from assignment to assignment, are split between pain, and pleasure. And Coulson wouldn't have it any other way. And there is somewhere, deep in his mind, in a part that he tries to ignore most of the time, he wonders if perhaps rule-bender Barton could be persuaded to bend just one more rule.

There is a sound like a gunshot, and the car veers sharply to the left. Barton reacts on instinct, throwing the wheel round to the right, and stepping firmly on the brakes to control the skid. Coulson feels the pressure increase as the car slews around, kicking up dust in a high plume. His seat belt cuts into him, and he braces his legs in the foot-well.

The engine stalls as the car comes to a halt, facing back the way that they had come. The dust started to settle as Coulson reaches for his gun in its shoulder holster.

“No need,” Clint says, checking the wing mirror. “Tire's blown out.”

“Sniper shot?” Coulson asks, always wary.

“Nah,” and that was that. If anyone knows snipers, it's Hawkeye.

After the heat of the car, it seems a degree or two cooler outside. The back right tire is destroyed completely, shreds of rubber the only thing that remain of it. The dust and soil are settling now over the wide marks of their accident. There is no-one else in sight, from horizon to horizon.

Phil takes a step towards the trunk of the car, rolling up his sleeves. The tire won't fix itself. He's stopped when Clint touches his arm.

“You've got me to do the dirty work for you, Agent. Wouldn't want your nice white shirt getting dusty now, would we?” and there is a hint of something flirty in Clint's tone. Either that or Coulson is imagining it.

“Be my guest,” Coulson says, since he isn't really keen on getting down on the ground. 

A wire and wood fence runs beside the road, starting and ending in the middle of nowhere, marking nothing. Rather than get back into the sweat box of the car, Coulson decides to wait outside. The fence makes a good leaning post, the wood hot through his suit jacket.

Clint reaches back into the car, and pulls out his discarded shirt. Carefully, he rips the two sleeves from the garment, and wraps the fabric around his hands. He also reaches in and yanks free the rubber floor mat from the drivers side, snagging the passenger one as well. Only then does he pop the trunk, the cloth protecting his hands from the baking hot metal. 

Coulson admires the play of Bartons muscles as he pulls free the jack from the boot. It's usable, but dirty, caked in grease and dirt from it's previous uses. This fact doesn't seem to bother Clint as he slides it under the car.

It's like poetry in motion, Coulson thinks through his stoic mask. Clint moves so gracefully, muscles pulling and flexing, his skin sheened with sweat. Coulson imagines stepping in close to Clint, and tracing the path of one of those beads, down Clint's neck and over his collarbone, tasting the sweat with his tongue.

He shifts, uncomfortably.

Flat on the ground now, Clint is halfway under the car, lying on the mats, removing the last shreds of rubber that had been caught underneath. Coulson finds himself watching his legs, imagining how the flesh looks beneath the black jeans. Its a distraction from the heat, but Coulson is getting hotter.

Emerging from under the car, Clint wipes one hand across his brow unthinking, leaving behind a long, dark smear. His blue eyes are bright with pleasure under that darkness, and Coulson feels a hitch in his heart. With the sun behind him, there is a halo of light around Clint's head. The light gleams off his skin, and Clint seems totally unaware of just how beautiful he is in that moment.

Coulson has never wanted him so much.

Clint moves and the illusion is nearly shattered, but Coulson still has that ache in his heart for what he can't have.

The remains of the old tire are discarded on the side of the road and the new tire is fitted with ease. Dirty and dusty, Clint lowers the jack, and slings it back into the trunk. He turns back to face Coulson, and dusts his hands off, grinning. 

“Ready to rock and roll,” he says snappily, and Coulson can't help but smile. He straightens from his lean and steps to the side of the car. His fingers twitch at his side, and before he can stop himself, he reaches up, and brushes his finger down the side of Clint's cheek.

It's an electric sensation, skin against skin, heat against heat.

Clint smiles.

Just before Coulson can offer some excuse about the grease, Clint moves. He sidesteps round Coulson, and Phil turns to follow out of instinct, and then finds himself backed up against the car. The heat sears through his suit, but that is nothing compared to the heat that engulfs him as Clint steps forward and kisses him aggressively.

Its all he dreamed of and more, and Coulson leans into it, a moan tearing free. Gone are the thoughts of propriety, of fraternization. All that remains is Clint.

They part again, panting for breath, heat surrounding them. Coulson knows that his eyes are wide, that his mask is shattered, but he doesn't care. All he wants is to taste Clint again. Clint looks satisfied, glowing, happy.

“Some rules are made to be broken,” Clint whispers. “You've watched me, I've watched you. I want to stop playing games, Phil. I want you.”

“Rules are made to be broken,” Coulson agrees, and kisses Clint again. Tonight, he'll trace his way down Clint's neck, finally get to see beneath the clothing. 

Finally, all his fantasies are coming true.


End file.
